


Future Imperfect

by Ladycat



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Bloodplay, Bondage, Daddy Kink, Dark, Humiliation, Implied Beastiality, Incest, M/M, Mind Control, Multi, Rape/Non-con Elements, did I mention dark?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-12 00:48:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1179926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The bed was huge, decadent to the point of being obscene, covered in black comforters of velvet, silken sheets ethereal white.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Future Imperfect

**Author's Note:**

> Please HEED THE TAGS.

The room was dark, candle-light a faint golden sheen from the corners, doing nothing to illuminate the rest of the room. Harry preferred it that way. He was Gryffindor, a creature of light and goodness, the physical embodiment of the purity of right and might and _white_.

And yet, he felt safest here among the shadows, secure as he never did under sunshine’s unyielding spotlight.

Reaching out, Harry carefully caressed one up-turned buttocks. It was already pink and swollen with pain and the skin shivered into wobbling at his touch—but there was no shift and pull away. If anything, there was a push backward.

“Good boy,” Harry said, tapping where the red was darkest, just to hear him whine like the dog Harry made him.

The bed was huge, decadent to the point of being obscene, covered in black comforters of velvet, silken sheets ethereal white. Normally kept pristine and clean—Harry won’t abide mess even if he was forced to clean it himself—now velvet and silk lay tumbled, mountains and valleys providing a lumpy, uncomfortable nest around the body tied to the bed’s four-posters. The body was sweat-soaked and reddened from various games, older bruises remnants from the day before and the day before that.

Choosing carefully, Harry picked up long, slender rod, creamy with striated marks of black within each measured knot. “I should transform you,” Harry mused as he dragged the rod against thick, powerful legs held immobile, that luscious reddened ass, and the long expanse of pale, pale back. “You know I’m powerful enough to choose what animus shape you’d become. Like Moody, turning you into that ferret.”

Draco shivered. There was cotton in his mouth, keeping him dry and wordless without blocking too much air—Harry did have limits, after all—but his eyes still rolled with so much expression that no words were truly needed.

The rod cracked out, sharp and bright like a bolt of lightning, leaving a long red line across the small of Draco’s back. Draco moaned, of course. Squirmed so that his bound cock rubbed against the bed, arching into the pain that raced through him.

“Good boy,” Harry praised, sounding pleased. “You’d be a pretty mutt, boy. Pale and glossy, just like you are now. And you’d obey without the glares you think I don’t see, now.”

Another hit, crossing the first. Another, then another until there was a tic-tac-toe board in raised red lines on Draco’s back. Climbing onto the bed, Harry left the cane across Draco’s buttocks as he ran a hand through Draco’s long, pale hair. Draco hadn’t cut it since moving into Harry’s home and it fell midway down his back with no signs of slowly. Harry knew Draco was disgusted with his unkempt appearance—split ends, were the whispers Harry heard in his mind—and Harry was saving a trim as something to spoil Draco with. Allowing him grooming possibilities was always worth their annoyance.

But Harry loved Draco’s long, smooth hair. He loved how easy it was to tangle in his fist, twisting the strands so that Draco’s head went wherever Harry wanted it to go, neck corded and strained as he was moved like a puppet.

“Pretty boy,” Harry murmured in Draco’s ear. He licked the shell, biting at the lobe just long enough to hear Draco’s soft, wordless whine—the one that meant hurt and good and a lot of other things beside. Draco’s hair brush slickly against Harry’s cheek as he pulled back. It smelled good. Like jasmine.

Draco shifted, tugging at the bonds that held him immobile. He wasn’t trying to free himself—no, not _Harry’s_ puppy—just reminding himself that he was caught and completely at someone else’s mercy.

Still kneeling on the bed, Harry took back his cane and used the very end, creating tattoos of intricate patterns in bruised, swelling red skin while Draco squirmed and whined, rubbing his tiny little cock against the bed as his body was turned into a work of art.

“Jacob’s ladder on your spine,” Harry narrated, petting Draco’s head with smooth, long strokes as he brought the cane down. “Roses on your shoulders.” The detail wasn’t all that fine—Draco swelled so messily, after all. But the shape of a flower was definitely visible, and the girlishness of it drove Draco mad.

He’d rather be called Harry’s dog than Harry’s little girl. Even if he was that, too.

Draco’s sobbing as silently as a boy in pain can manage by the time Harry’s done. “Shhh,” Harry tells him, kissing the crown of his head, the back of his neck, beneath the ear he turns up to Harry’s mouth, unable to shake his training no matter how much might want to. Just how much was subject of some debate. The potions that kept Draco drugged and willing had long ago worn off, but still Draco arched for each tap of the cane, each chance to do as Harry bid him.

“Very good boy,” Harry murmured, slipping further down to rub his cock against Draco’s hip and buttocks, right across a particularly livid hand-print. Sitting back, he said, “Spread your legs as wide as you can, boy. Good. That’s very good.”

Draco was eager when he hurt, bound legs slithering as far as the length of magical cloth would allow him. Since it was attuned to Harry’s mind, it meant Draco’s legs spread quite a bit, exposing the dark shadow of his ass, his cock and balls bound with thin, spidery thread.

Harry brought the cane down, again and again and again, varying it only when he turned his attentions to Draco’s feet, turning those into peppered red marks of agony, before spreading Draco’s cheeks with a magical twist and bringing the cane down dead center.

Draco howled, bucking like a wild thing as he was turned into a desperate, greedy work of art. He trembled, a shivering horse unable to dislodge a fly, tears leaking out of unfocused eyes as he took each blow, each cutting cruelty, and wanted more and more.

By the time Harry stopped, he too was panting, hard as he told Draco how good he was, how sweet and perfect he was for Harry, how much Harry loved his pathetic slut of a dog. “I do this for you,” Harry murmured, caressing over each mark, rubbing it darker still with blood while both of them ached for release. “I do this because you love it, Draco. Because you want to be hurt more than even I want to hurt you. It was you who wanted this first, remember. You who knelt at my feet and took each mark I gave you.”

Which was all mostly true, if not quite as willing as Harry made it seem. At this point things like willingness were long of the past; Draco was owned by Harry and so long as Harry enjoyed these games, so would Draco.

Settling back, Harry lifted his head. “Lucius.”

He’d bought them as a set, of course. Both of them pale and blonde and utterly depraved, kneeling before him like it was his due.

Which it was.

Lucius crept forward to kneel at the foot of the bed. He was not as favored as his son, not nearly as pretty to look upon. His strengths lay in other areas.

Reaching out, Harry pet his head much the way he’d pet the son’s. “Go bring us a bottle, boy. I think your little pup needs something in that greedy pussy you helped create.”

Lucius had more of his mind left. Not much—he was as much Harry’s as Draco was, bound to pain and pleasure—but since it was his grasp of Death Eater politics that mattered, Harry left him far more intact. Besides, it drove him mad to know he’d never be inside Draco’s tight ass again, never feel that eager mouth along his cock—and madder still to know that Harry Potter, enemy turned Master, had both whenever he wished.

Still, Lucius was as beaten as his son and moved quickly. The bottles were all glass, all used for something originally although what that use was is long lost to this newest pleasure. Harry chose one he value recognized, the bottom flat, rising up to a taper before flaring like a woman’s bosom, then tapering again to where the cap would sit. It was larger than Harry’s memories of what it might be—not that he could identify them, or care much—just a hair thicker than Harry’s balled up fist.

Sitting with his legs splayed over Draco’s body, Harry gestured with the bottle. “Lucius, do what you never did when he was yours to play with—eat him out. Make him nice and wet for whatever I might like to do with him.”

The bed was, of course, at the perfect height, magically allowing Lucius to crawl forward unimpeded until he reached Draco’s ass. There he craned his neck forward, eager to perform under Harry’s eye. It was a remnant of who he’d been, Harry was sure, the idea that he had control of Draco’s pleasure in this one thing, owning him the way Draco had never truly been owned before Harry.

Harry allowed the perversion. It kept Lucius hoping and toying with that hope was one of Harry’s joys. Why he’d gone most of his life without feeling the rush of drawing his toys high up in the air before sending them crashing back to earth... then, he’d been misguided about a great many things. Voldemort had taught him, and taught him well before Harry finally killed the bastard.

But where Voldemort wanted purity and control, Harry only wanted whatever it was that caught his eye at that moment. The Wizarding World functioned without much interference from him, which meant none formed the rebellions that had eventually brought Voldemort down. So long as Harry confined himself to his own perversions, everyone bowing and scraping on his brief visits outside—no one cared.

It was amazing, absolutely amazing what people could be convinced of.

Wet, slurping sounds invaded Harry’s thoughts, tugging him back to the present. Draco was whining steadily, a dog’s discomforted cry, rocking back into his father’s mouth and tongue, enjoying his fucking as much as Lucius enjoyed this one way he had left to fuck his darling, precious son.

“Enough,” Harry said. Lucius immediately pulled back, cheeks wet from his own saliva glinting as he leaned down, kissing the tops of both buttocks before crawling back to his corner. “Lick yourself,” Harry ordered in a fit of mischievousness, “and don’t come. If you’re good, I might let Sirius fuck you.”

Sirius was the wolf hound Harry had purchased years before, right after Voldemort’s death. He’d been a comfort when Harry had slowly gone insane, and remained one to this day. And he did enjoy fucking both of Harry’s other pets, using them as happily as Harry did.

Using a thumb to yank Draco open, Harry lubed the bottle with a thought before pressing the flat end to Draco’s hole. “Want it, puppy?” Draco’s body heaved with each breath, entrance moving rhythmically as his body clashed with the idea of ultimate rejection—a healthy response—and Harry’s carefully crafted need to be used and degraded however Harry might wish, need that turned into flaring, beautiful pleasure whenever Draco acquiesced. “Tell me you want it, boy,” Harry said.

Draco moaned, the words garbled and wet, head bobbing as he rocked his hips back, clearly asking for it. Asking for whatever Harry wanted of him.

“Good boy!” Harry said, leaning down to bite a throbbing mark. He loved the way swollen flesh tasted. “That’s my good pup, knows exactly what her pussy’s good for—being filled.” The bottle doesn’t slide in easily. As much as Draco’s taken, as often and as hard, Harry makes sure that he’s as tight as he was long before Lucius figured out that a son was twice as nice as a wife, long before Voldemort punished a younger Draco by making him crave this ultimate perversion, something not even his father had made him _enjoy_.

But for all Voldemort had made him like it, begging wantonly to be filled like the slut he’d become, it was Harry that’d made him love it.

The flat base was most of the problem, forcing Draco to cry out, flailing as his body had to rapidly accommodate or risk tears. His was whining constantly now, broken off sobs of pain as he frantically pushed himself up the bed, trying to get away from the pain, from the thing that kept moving deeper and deeper inside him. It didn’t get better as the bottle began to taper, narrowing into something Draco could take easily—not with the flat of the bottle pressed hard and tight against Draco’s insides, the ribbed circumference rubbing hard against his prostate.

God, was it beautiful. A terrified, flailing boy that loved every moment of this pain and degradation, bound cock flushed a beautiful red, his body a mosaic of intricate work Harry had spent weeks—months—mastering, while Harry’s darker, work-roughened fingers brushed against Draco’s cheeks, wielding the bottle that fucked Draco.

Gag removed, it was still long, frantic moments before Draco did more than whine like Harry’s newest and most prized puppy.

“Good?” Harry asked, brushing Draco’s hair out of his eyes. “Isn’t that better, pup?”

Draco wasn’t trying to get away anymore, oh no. Now he was rocking backwards, body open and wet and eager as he tried to take more of the bottle, squeezing whenever he felt the warmth of Harry’s fingers instead of cold, cold glass. “Good,” he whined, voice high and young without the depth of his shattered arrogance to give him weight. “Please, please, it’s good, please.”

“There’s my greedy boy,” Harry said. His own cock was aching, flat against his stomach and the focus of Draco’s disconcertingly intense gaze. “My pup with the aching, empty pussy.”

“Yessss,” Draco hissed, because like this he’d agree to anything, everything so long as he could reach Harry’s cock. A bright, steady flame of madness burned in his grey eyes, licking his lips to the same rhythm of the bottle fucked into his ass. “Please, Daddy, can I?”

Thank whoever for magic. A twist of a spell and the bottle continued to move, freeing Harry’s hands to yanking Draco’s head into his lap, fucking his cock into Draco’s throat whether or not the boy is ready. He is, though, eagerly swallowing with wet, gasping noises echoed by his Father, still twisted around in inhuman flexibility to suck on his own dick.

Harry enjoys Draco’s mouth, the heat and giving softness of it, the throat that accepts Harry’s cock without a twitch or a gag. As always, he fucks hard, barreling into Draco’s face and chin, matching the distant flash of glass as it moves back and forth, back and forth, back and—

Arching, Harry comes with a grunt, spilling over Draco’s mouth and face. Draco moans, tongue eagerly moving to find more to swallow, grunting as each thrust of the bottle rocks him forward on the bed.

“You look very pretty like that, boy,” Harry tells him, kissing a dry part of his forehead. “Would you like to come?”

And Draco, good boy that he is, just widens his legs a little further and shakes his head. “No, Daddy. Not until I’m fucking Lucius.”

Ah, yes. Draco is such a _good_ boy.

Behind them, Lucius whimpers. His son has a wicked cock and he’s utterly ruthless as he fucks dear old Dad’s mouth—while, if Harry keeps his promise, Sirius takes the rest.

And while they perform for him Harry will laugh and clap until he wants again, pulling his pup into his lap and bouncing him up and down until they both gasp and twitch, both put their hands all over the marks on Draco’s body and wish there were more.


End file.
